


Paint Sunlight on the Side of a House

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Character Study, Humor, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 07:56:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14100897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: Draco had never been all that enthralled with his soulmark.





	Paint Sunlight on the Side of a House

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! have a soulmate au, inspired by [this post](http://asexual-fandom-queen.tumblr.com/post/172199662281/fandangoing-okay-guys-hear-me-out-a-soulmate) on tumblr. a note that in this universe, casual touches don't make the soulmark wake up, it has to be more direct, even if it's unintentional. this turned more into a way to grasp draco's voice, and there's not a ton of dialogue, but i really enjoyed how this turned out!
> 
> big thanks to hannah (cathect/devilstrip) for betaing, as always!
> 
> enjoy!

Draco had never been all that enthralled with his soulmark; while the concept of soulmates in general had always fascinated him, his own soulmark was rather small. It wasn’t all that lovely to look at. Not like his mother’s, scattered freckles nearly shaped like stars across the top of her right hand. Her soulmark had lit up the moment his father’s lips touched her skin in a gentlemanly kiss. Lucius’ soulmark was also rather beautiful—a single crescent moon shape along his jawline, brought to life when Narcissa cupped his face sweetly, when they were young.

Draco’s mark is a splatter, like a drop of wayward paint, black and unexciting on his pale arm. Sometimes he even thinks it’s really a stain, or a bug, or something else best brushed off to the ground. It never budges, though. Never fades and never lights up and never does anything interesting at all.

So Draco lives his life rather unenthused by his mark and at the same time entirely enamored by the thought that there’s someone out there just for him.

It’s perhaps here, in this dichotomy of feelings, that the theme for Draco’s life is set.

 

 

 

When the time comes for him to get the Dark Mark, it takes Draco an embarrassingly long time to realize a crucial fact—the Mark will cover his paint blot soulmark.

Not even a stray corner will be left uncovered and Draco spends the week leading up to his branding in his room alone. It’s perhaps cowardly, but none of the Death Eaters taunt him about it. When he does venture out of his room—only twice, both times to seek comfort in his mother’s arms—he hears whispers.

_“Did you hear what Lucius asked of the Dark Lord?”_

_“I feel bad for the boy, I do, but the Mark is a far greater honor—!”_

The morning of the ceremony, Narcissa takes Draco aside, “Your father tried, Draco.” It’s all she tells him before he’s carted off to the Manor’s drawing room. His father is already present, looking a mix of haggard and guilty and proud. Various other Death Eaters have joined around, as well; it’s something of a special occasion, as none of the other children have gotten the Mark yet.

In the center of the followers is the Dark Lord himself. He sits in what used to be Lucius’ chair as head of the Manor. Now the once plush fabric stinks of the undead and Nagini curls possessively around the clawed feet.

“Come to me, boy,” the Dark Lord hisses. He extends a bony hand and curls his fingers as if to beckon Draco closer. The lipless grin on his face is as unsettling as the delighted glint in his stone black eye, but Draco steps forward all the same.

He very purposefully takes long strides across the drawing room, confident ones, even though his legs are shaking.

He holds his head high as he greets, “My Lord.” He falls to one knee in front of the makeshift throne and listens as the Dark Lord hums appreciatively. There’s a moment of consideration, then a tapping that signals Draco to stand,

The Dark Lord’s hand is outstretched and Draco presents his left forearm with only a second’s hesitation. As his arm is inspected, Draco takes a moment to look the Dark Lord over as well.

He thinks of the rumors—that Tom Riddle was born without a soulmark entirely, or that his evil deeds burned the blessing from his skin, or that it was left off his ungodly reborn form. Regardless of the truth, when Draco meets the Dark Lord’s gaze, there is no sympathy in the serpent-like pits of black.

Deliberately, a chilled thumb brushes over Draco’s soulmark and smirks at the resulting shiver. Then, holding Draco by one thin wrist, the Dark Lord raises his wand and brings the tip to Draco’s arm. He presses it directly against Draco’s soulmark, and laughs under his breath as the dark magic seeps into Draco’s skin.

When it’s over, when Draco is panting for air and his hair is matted with sweat, when his teeth ache from gritting through the pain, the Dark Lord releases him with a triumphant smile.

“It is done,” he announces, though it’s clear to anyone in the room. “He is one of us…”

 

 

 

Draco never forgets where his soulmark sits, underneath the ink imbued with dark magic on his arm. Sometimes, if he lets his eyes go unfocused, he can make out the odd edges of his paint blot mark. He tries to trace the spot every now and then, but the dark magic stings against his fingertips. Eventually, he does his best to put the soulmark out of his mind; he has different things to worry about, to focus on. The Vanishing Cabinet, Dumbledore—all of it weighs heavily on him.

In the back of his mind, though, he never forgets.

 

 

 

After the war, the Dark Mark goes dies like its creator. Part of Draco had hoped it would vanish entirely, or perhaps fade. It doesn’t do either of those things, but it does go dead. The dark magic in the ink evaporates from his skin and leaves it cold and lifeless. There’s no sting when he traces the snake wound through the skull. There’s only a deep chill, like a body left to rot.

Except for his paint blot. It still doesn’t show through the Dark Mark, but it’s warm to the touch. It feels more like the rest of Draco’s skin: lively, blood pumping, bright with a softer magic. Instead of a sting, like the Dark Mark before, the paint blot fills Draco with warmth when he brushes over it. He doesn’t know whether it’ll light up if he ever meets his soulmate, but even knowing the spot still thrives on his body is enough.

It feels odd, the way he takes to touching that spot constantly. He traces the edges he still remembers and focuses on the life in the spot, surrounded by death. After so long pretending his left forearm wasn’t marked up, it’s startling to fall into the focus so easily. The obsession he never had as a child develops in full force, and along with it comes renewed hope about finding his soulmate.

After the war, his paint blot mark becomes a stark, strong reminder: he’s here, he’s survived. The universe thought he was worth loving, and granted him a soulmate. It’s enough to keep him going, even when the world feels as though it’s against him.

 

 

 

Draco gasps and shudders in Potter’s arms, rakes his nails down his lover’s back and arches against him. He manages to open his eyes long enough to watch Potter straining above him, slick with a sheen of sweat and face contorted in concentrated pleasure. Draco hadn’t really meant to lay back and have Potter do all the work—but tonight it’s how he finds himself, and far be it for him to complain. Potter fucks him with a single-minded determination Draco’s come to admire, as much as he loathed it in their school days.

Potter’s hands move like a swift river over Draco’s body: they grab his hip bruisingly tight and curl around Draco’s arse to clutch him closer. Potter’s hands tangle in the bedsheets, and more than once Potter has ripped the fine silken sheets. Draco never even minds. Potter’s hands wander constantly, eagerly, and though they never brush Draco’s forearm he doesn’t mind that either. In the throws of passion, he thinks it would only be a cruel reminder of everything they’ve overcome.

 

They’ve been at this—not this particular round of shagging, just shagging in general—for the better part of a year now. In the wake of the war, now four years behind them, it’s been the most exciting time of Draco’s life.

It all started at a blasted Ministry gala, one Draco had been reluctant to attend. He ended up dragged along by Luna, who was going to flesh out an article for _The Quibbler_. He then was promptly abandoned by his cousin the minute they arrived. Draco had half a mind at the time to simply leave, but before he could he found himself adrift the sea of people, chattering on and on and on.

Eventually, he ended up in the orbit of the so-called Golden Trio, and was somehow welcomed into their discussion with open arms. The conversation was nearly seamless, something that baffles Draco to this day. He’d managed to tread his way through a chat about magical creature welfare legislation with Granger, which teetered smoothly into a partial argument about the Cannons’ chance at winning the cup with Weasley.

It culminated in soft apologies, and with Granger and Weasley excusing themselves to refill their drinks. It left Draco and Potter alone, and even _that_ wasn’t as stilted as awkward as Draco expected. There weren’t any apologies to be had—Draco had taken care of that at his trial, it only seemed fair given how Potter had spoken for him—so they talked about other things.

Harry had asked about Luna, about his mother, and Draco in turn asked about Ginerva, and the Weasley clan overall. It went back and forth (and it took Draco a staggeringly long while to realize Granger and Weasley would not be returning) for a while, and somehow led into Harry guiding him to the dancefloor to waltz through a couple songs.

All in all, the night ended with Potter coming back to Draco’s flat.

 

“You’re overthinking,” Potter whispers against his ear. His hips push forward especially rough and the movement tears another gasp from Draco’s throat. “Can’t have that,” Potter chides teasingly, then nips at Draco’s earlobe. “Am I starting to bore you, Malfoy?”

Draco’s eyes flutter shut and he drags his nails up Potter’s back to dig into his neck instead. He uses the grip to pull Potter closer, deeper, and keeps him in place by locking his legs around Potter’s waist. “Never,” Draco retorts, turning and catching Potter’s lips in a harsh kiss. “Just _fuck me_ you annoying twat.”

Potter laughs against his mouth and kisses him softer, though his thrusts turn fast and brutal. Draco whines every time Potter sinks into him and grazes his prostate, and Potter drinks in every desperate sound through the kiss. The bedframe slaps against the wall in time with their movements, and Draco’s body burns at the thought of his neighbors overhearing.

Not that it stops him at all.

“I’m close,” he murmurs instead, tone shaking with lust. He rolls his hips against Potter’s thrusts and finally drops a hand between them. He curls his grip around his own cock and starts to stroke. “Come on, Potter, is that all you’ve got?”

Potter rolls his eyes and kisses Draco one last time, steals the wanton moan right from his mouth as they both come. Draco spills first and stains their stomachs, his hand, and rides it out as Potter’s hips start to jerk unevenly. Potter comes inside him and starts to slow only as his cock stops pulsing.

He pulls out after a few moments and Draco shivers. He stretches out his legs as Potter moves from between them to settle beside him on the bed. They climb under the covers together—and maybe it’s odd, to share a bed after but not put a label on what they’re doing—and Draco lets Potter wind around him as always. The berk is a determined cuddler, and Draco pretends to put up with it, even though he’s sure Potter is entirely unconvinced by his half-hearted protests.

Draco is just starting to doze when Potter’s hands start to wander again. He doesn’t mind so he doesn’t tell him to stop; if anything, it feels rather nice. Sometimes Potter’s fingers dig in with a little more pressure and the tension in Draco’s muscles release. Other times, his fingers turn fairy light in their touch and Draco shivers, wonders if his lover might be angling for another round.

Eventually, Potter’s fingers hit his left forearm, and he doesn’t shy away this time. Draco stiffens slightly but waits it out. Potter starts at the crook of his elbow and winds around his arm, traces the snake and the skull. He follows the tattoo down Draco’s arm until he hits a spot close to his wrist, almost at his pulse point.

Draco gasps and shoots up in bed, and Potter’s hand tightens around his wrist.

Both silent, they stare at each other, then their gazes drop to his arm. Slowly, Potter pulls his hand back and Draco gasps again, then chokes on the following sob. He watches as the black ink spot, the paint blot splatter, comes to life even beneath the ink of his old Mark. It shines through through ugly brand and shimmers a million different colors.

It settles on a deep emerald green.

Draco looks up cautiously and braces himself for disgust or anger or anything other than what he finds.

Potter— _Harry, you should probably call him Harry, now_ , a voice in his head chastises—is beaming at him in delight.

“I knew it.”

Draco frowns. “What?” He looks at his mark again, then back at Harry. “You knew what?”

Rather than answering, Harry raises his own right arm. He stretches until Draco can get a close look at the understand of his bicep, just a few inches shy of his armpit. It’s hard to make out, but the moonlight catches on the mark at just the right moment and Draco nearly swallows his tongue.

“How?” Draco asks, barely a whisper. He raises a shaking hand to touch the silver-gray-blue splatter on Harry’s arm. It’s tiny, miniscule, so impossibly easy to miss—just like Draco’s own, really. Both hidden, and Draco snorts. The universe thinks itself poetic, he figures.

“I’m not sure,” Harry admits. “I think it might’ve been,” Harry pinks and grins sheepishly. “During a shag, at some point. Or during the night.” He gestures to the bed and the rumpled sheets. “I didn’t notice it right away, not until I was showering one night and thought… I thought the skin felt different.”

Surprised, Draco reaches for his own mark and skirts his fingers over the green spot. He nods after a moment. “It does feel different,” he agrees. “Smoother.”

Harry grins. “Exactly.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Draco says after a beat. He pins Harry with an expectant stare, and gets another sheepish look in response. He shrugs, too, and Draco fights back a fond roll of his eyes.

“I couldn’t find a mark on you, and I figured… It wouldn’t seem that bizarre for the universe to give me a soulmark, a soulmate—but for it to be unrequited.”

Draco’s eyes widen. He blinks owlishly at Harry, until finally he finds his voice again. “Merlin’s beard, you’re more dramatic than _I_ am.” He laughs as he says it and ends up tackled back onto the bed for his comment. He wrestles with Harry for a moment before they both settle again, once more wrapped up in each other.

After another stretch of silence, Draco speaks again. “And you were alright with that?” He asks. “What if we hadn’t ever known?”

Harry shrugs. “I would’ve been happy to just be with you.” He leans in and steals a soft kiss from Draco, smiling at his answering swoon. “And I just hoped that’d be enough for you too.”

Draco swallows. “Oh.” He looks down once more at his emerald green paint splatter, then lifts Harry’s arm to peer at his silver matching soulmark, smaller and even more obscure than Draco’s own. “It would’ve been enough for me, but…” He lets Harry’s arm drop and pulls him in for yet another kiss. Despite shagging for the past year, Draco feels suddenly like they’ve been wasting time, like he has a million kisses to make up for. “I rather like this better, I think.”

Harry beams once more, and they finally relax in bed. Draco feels sleep tugging at him within moments, and dozes off just as Harry’s hand curls around his paint blot mark.

“Goodnight, Draco.”

Draco hides his grin against his pillow. “Goodnight, Harry.”


End file.
